The Muse

by Lauren Blakely

  But I highly doubt it.

  My sister is alone in the break room, head propped in her hands over a cup of tea. Even though a teabag still dangles over the rim of the cup, the drink has stopped steaming.

  I reach behind me and close the break room door without her asking. “What’s wrong?”

  She pinches the bridge of her nose and slumps against the back of the chair. “It’s Gabrielle,” she says, mentioning the Renoir.

  “The sun damage?”

  “Yes. Her painting has it now too. On her shawl.” I take the seat across from her in wordless sympathy, trying to keep calm, at least on the outside.

  “And it’s not just us now.” Adelin’s voice hitches with despair. “The Young Girls at the Piano is fading even more at the Louvre. And I heard from the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston today. Dance at Bougival is having problems too.” Running a hand over her face, she says, “How is this happening? We didn’t find any light coming in, and even if we did, Boston now makes three different locations. It’s like the Renoirs are turning into . . . mall art.”

  Could the curse on Clio’s painting be responsible?

  Except that, while the problem might have worsened recently, the Young Girls at the Piano started to fade weeks ago, well before Clio’s painting arrived here.

  “What can I do to help?” I ask my sister as much as my boss.

  “You have such a good eye, Julien. You noticed the problem with the Young Girls at the Piano long before anyone else. If you would go over all the Renoirs now—really fine-tooth comb them—that would give us a clearer picture of where we stand.”

  “Of course,” I tell her. I round the table, and even though we’re at work, I bend over and wrap my arms around her shoulders in a brotherly hug. “I’m so sorry you’re having to deal with this.”

  She pats my forearm then gives it a squeeze. “I’m just sick about the damage to the art is all.”

  “I know. Me too.” I squeeze her back and then straighten. “I’ll get right on it—inspect those Renoirs like an auditor inspects a tax return.”

  At least that makes her chuckle.

  With the museum’s catalog pulled up on my phone, I start at the far end of the top floor and methodically work my way through the galleries. I know now why I can see the irregularities before anyone else.

  On my inspection tour, I find trouble brewing on one more of our Renoirs. I send Adaline an email with the bad news that the masterpiece may soon join its fallen comrades, then let her know I’m going to head over to the Louvre and inspect the pieces over there.

  I won’t only be looking for sun damage though. I want to examine the warped paintings I saw the last time I was there, see if they’re sicker.

  I have to figure out what’s going on before it hurts Clio.

  16

  It is August, so the Louvre is crowded everywhere and packed around the usual suspects—the Venus de Milo, works by Italian Renaissance old masters, and of course, the most popular resident of any museum anywhere, the Mona Lisa. It is always a zoo around her, with visitors holding their phones above the crowd to take pictures of the woman behind the glass, like it’s some kind of Paris scavenger hunt.

  Fortunately, none of the greatest hits are on my agenda. I head straight for the Interiors exhibit to check out the vanishing act pulled off by de Heem’s lemon.

  I locate the small frame quickly because I know what I’m looking for—it’s a pint-size postcard of a painting that’s easy to miss. And Gustave’s buddy told a true tale—the painting is missing a lemon. Usually, it’s perched near the edge of a table, the rind half peeled and the insides glistening tartly. It’s as if it was never there at all.

  I turn to a pair of travelers standing next to me—two older women, American by their accents, possibly sisters by their matching brown hair and straight noses. “Excuse me. This may seem like a strange question, but do you see a lemon right there?”

  I point to the spot where the lemon used to be, and one of the ladies laughs. “Is that a trick question? There’s no lemon in that painting at all.”

  That’s different since the last time I was here. Something has changed, making the alterations now visible to anyone. But still only I can see Clio—and it’s the same when the other paintings come alive at the Musée d’Orsay.

  But what has changed? Why can the visitors see the mutations of the art in the Louvre, and Adaline and the other curators see the fading of the Renoirs?

  I hurry to the other galleries and reach the Ingres first. The drooping feathers in the odalisque’s peacock fan aren’t hanging out of the canvas anymore. Most are missing, like a rat tore them out, leaving behind a fan half the size. I locate the Titian next, with the woman looking at her reflection. What was a tiny fissure in her mirror is now an ugly crack down the middle.

  The woman next to me is studying the painting thoughtfully, and I use the opportunity to say, as if it’s a casual observation, “Funny, how she’s looking at herself in a broken mirror, isn’t it?”

  Cocking her head, she considers it a moment more while I hold my breath. “It is. Like ‘The Lady of Shalott,’ but cracked up and down instead of side to side.”

  Bathsheba is next, and the change there is dramatic. Where her stomach had bulged out of the canvas before, now that belly is just gone, her stomach flatter, as if a plastic surgeon stopped by and gave the fleshy figure a nip tuck.

  “That’s one sexy biblical figure.” The remark comes from a young German guy ogling the Rembrandt. “I don’t remember her being such a babe, but she’s got a rocking bod.”

  I run both my hands through my hair, pushing my palms hard against my scalp. Bathsheba has a rocking bod?

  Regardless, I’ve discovered that other people can now see what I see, but they have no idea that they’re gazing at art that’s turning ill.

  And I have no idea either how sick the art can get. Or whether I can do anything about it.

  17

  Simon is clearly James Bond. He’s found where Max Broussard lives.

  “You’re 007,” I say with an appreciative smile as we walk down a narrow stretch of sidewalk in Pigalle, an up-and-coming neighborhood, that’s still quite ramshackle.

  He blows on his fingernails. “My talent is boundless. And so is my affection for Lucy. Speaking of, she keeps asking me about Emilie.”

  Seeing where this is going, I try to deflect. “She’s trying to set you up with her friend now?”

  He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. Lucy wants us all to do something. The four of us. As two couples.”

  “Maybe she just doesn’t want to hang out with you alone.”

  Simon reverses direction on the sidewalk. “On second thought, I don’t have time to show you where Broussard lives.”

  “Kidding.” I grab his arm and turn him back around, and we keep walking. Other than giving him a hard time, there’s no reason to be cagey with Simon, so I test out the truth. “Thing is . . . there’s kind of someone else I’m into.”

  “Really?” Simon raises an eyebrow as we cross an unevenly cobbled patch of street and turn onto an even narrower one. The dilapidated buildings around us tilt inward the slightest bit.

  “Well?” Simon presses. “What’s the story?”

  My phone buzzes with a text—a quick look tells me it’s from Sophie, who has been dogging Cass Middleton since we saw her a few days ago.

  * * *

  Sophie: Cass is up to something, going in and out of a church near her shop in the afternoons. Will stake her out tomorrow at this time and alert you, okay?

  * * *

  I tap back with a thumbs-up and tuck my phone into my pocket while I tell Simon, “It’s complicated.”

  “Oh, well, don’t tell me because my little pea brain can’t handle it.”

  “It’s just that it’s still early.”

  “So how do you know her?” he asks.

  “She hangs out at the museum.”

  “Have you talked to her? Asked her
out?”

  “Not exactly out.”

  “Do you need me to come by and do it for you?”

  I can’t decide whether to laugh or panic. “Ha. Hardly.”

  Finally, we reach our destination -- Max Broussard’s home. The quiet side street squeezes between a graffiti-covered brick building on one side and what looks like a shabby sort of studio space on the other. Through the dirty windows of the building, I see the place is a mess, stacked with smocks and pottery wheels, kilns and sculptor’s tools, sketch pads and pencils. “This is where he lives?”

  “Nope. He lives there. In a connecting flat. Place can’t be more than ten square meters. A total dive. Inherited it from his grandparents. His parents are gone too—died in a car crash. No family estate in Normandy to keep his priceless art in either.” Simon points through the window at an easel holding a sketch pad with a drawing of a dog with floppy ears. “That’s where he draws. This guy defines starving artist—living hand-to-mouth, barely making ends meet. No way does that bloke own a secret Renoir.”

  The big question, though, is why did Renoir choose this young artist to inhabit when Max isn’t even a painter?

  “And check this out.” Simon unfolds a piece of paper from his back pocket and shows me a caricature of Lucy. It’s cute—her green streaks look like wings in her hair. “Lucy makes a bang-up secret agent. She had him do her caricature across from the museum this morning so she could get him talking.”

  Across from the museum. Of course.

  Location, location, location.

  Renoir must have picked Max for his proximity to the Musée d’Orsay. Before Clio came, I’d never seen Max look like anyone but Max. Supposedly, Renoir was in love with the model for Woman Wandering in the Irises. Is this a messed-up stalking situation?

  I peer through the window at the clutter in the studio, hunting for something, anything. On the floor by the easel are papers, sketches, comic book drawings of cats and dogs with oversize heads and snouts. But at the bottom of one of the pages, I can see a number and nearly illegible letters, as if written by an unsteady hand—19 Rue de . . . something. I make out the first three letters of the street name and realize it’s the address for the shop with the Jack Russell in the window.

  Zola and Celeste’s gallery. The same one that verified Clio’s painting for us before it came to our museum.

  Chills race down my spine as we take off.

  Simon and I race up the Metro steps and then make for the gallery. Inside, Zola is talking to a customer who’s considering a pink painted canvas with a miniature metal skateboard sticking out of it. Gotta love modern art.

  Zola smiles at us and holds up one finger to indicate she’ll be done soon, and Simon and I walk around as she finishes.

  A few seconds later, the bell over the door gives a cheery ding as Zola shows the customer out and waves goodbye.

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” she asks, sweeping over to first give me a kiss on each cheek, then Simon. “And from double-the-trouble gents, no less.”

  “We’re tracing the path of someone,” I say quickly, desperate for intel. “A little older than me, about this tall, dark hair, and . . .” I crunch up my hands to mimic Max’s twisted fingers as Renoir. “Like that.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember him,” Zola says, a gleam in her eyes. “He was wheeling an art crate in a little shopping cart because of his hands.”

  Tension winds through me. “Why was he here? What was in the crate?”

  She motions for us to step closer. “He had what he claimed was a Renoir. He showed it to Celeste, swearing—we’re talking adamant—that it was the original Woman Wandering in the Irises.”

  That can’t be.

  “What’s hanging in the museum, then?” I ask, brow knit, worry digging into my bones.

  “He had the gall to say the one at the Musée d’Orsay is a fake,” she scoffs.

  My jaw clenches. “That takes some nerve. There’s no way that’s true.”

  Zola leans against the counter. “Indeed. The man claimed that Renoir himself left the original to Broussard’s family and specified that the painting never be shown, never be exhibited, never even be touched by anyone.”

  Never be touched . . .

  There’s something so tragic about those words applied to Clio. I can’t imagine never having been able to touch her, hold her, kiss her . . .

  Simon raises a hand, like he’s in class. “But what’s the point of painting something only to hide it away? And never look at it? Art is meant to be seen.”

  “What did Celeste say about his painting?” I jump in, offering a prayer that Celeste’s eagle eye came through, spotted Ghost Renoir’s fake for the fake it has to be.

  Zola smiles slyly, like she’s proud of her wife. “That it was a near-perfect replica, maybe one of the best she’s seen, but it lacked Renoir’s signature pigment.”

  Yes!

  “What’s that?” Simon asks. “Like a custom paint?”

  “Renoir had a special pigment for his signature, so his own work would always be verifiable and unique,” I explain, relieved that Celeste could tell easily.

  Simon nods. “Got it. So that proves Broussard’s painting is a copy?”

  “Yes,” Zola answers. “But interestingly, it’s quite an old one.”

  That is interesting. “How old?” I ask, an idea taking shape.

  “More than a hundred and thirty-five years old.”

  “As old as the original painting . . .”

  My mind whirls. Remy didn’t say how his great-great-grandmother actually got the painting in the first place. But I bet Suzanne Valadon made the copy to protect Clio. I bet she copied the portrait and swapped it out a hundred and thirty-five years ago, giving Renoir the fake, and keeping the original – the cursed painting with Clio in it – safe with her family over the years.

  If Renoir thought he had successfully locked Clio away in a painting for the rest of time, he wouldn’t look for her.

  With a shudder I remember what Max said the first time he showed up on my tour—that some women are trouble and they shouldn’t be let out.

  Renoir wants Clio to stay trapped. Whatever magic keeps her in the painting can’t be undone if she’s in someone’s attic. That’s where he wants her. Hidden away.

  That’s it!

  I want to fist-pump and shout, but I’m still in the gallery, and Zola and Simon are looking at me with concern, and I still have more questions because why would Renoir want to trap her? Why would he do this?

  That’s the next mystery for me to solve.

  I thank Zola profusely, and Simon and I exit to the street.

  As soon as we step outside, he says casually, “So, want to let me in on what’s really going on?”

  I turn to him. I’m not sure I could ask anyone but Simon this question, but we’ve been friends for a long time. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Should I believe in ghosts?” he asks as we set off walking.

  I take him through my Ghost of a Great Artist Comes Back to Preserve His Legacy theory as we pass more antique shops and art galleries lining the street by the river. He nods thoughtfully as he follows along.

  “And so Renoir’s taken up cohabitation in this street artist Lucy and I have been tailing?” Simon asks when I’m done.

  “Yes. And a bunch of Renoir’s paintings are fading. Not just at the Musée d’Orsay, but everywhere. And somehow that’s related to the Woman Wandering in the Irises.”

  Simon shakes his head and claps me on the back. “It is truly never a dull moment with you, Garnier.”

  I stop walking. “Does that mean you don’t believe me, or you do?”

  “Does it matter? I’m your friend, and whatever you need me to do, I’m all in. Whether I believe in ghosts or not.”

  “All right. Whenever Remy figures out what’s going on with Cass Middleton, you’re coming with me then, okay?”

  “As if I’d miss it.”

  “I�
�d better get back to the museum.”

  “To your complicated woman.” His grin is knowing, and my sheepish shrug is an admission. It’s not even a lie. I’m most definitely going to see my complicated, compelling Clio, who has invited me back to her place tonight.

  18

  Clio gestures to the gardens where she lives, a sly look in her pretty eyes. “Touch my painting.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “Right. I’m sure you didn’t at all expect a little naughtiness.”

  I lean in, brushing a kiss to her sweet mouth. “I never expect. I always hope.”

  “Hope is good.”

  I pull back, rubbing my palms together. “All right. Where am I touching this fantastic, gorgeous, sexy, stunning, brilliant, beautiful work of art?”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she says, a flirty tone in her voice. “Including in there.” She tips her forehead to the painting.

  “Exactly where I want to be,” I say, running my fingertips down her arm, savoring the feel of her warm skin, the way she responds, the goosebumps that arise in my wake.

  “This is what I want you to do. Touch the flowers first. The irises. So you know you can go through the painting without flipping out.”

  “I’m not going to hurt the art?” I ask, shrinking away a bit, thinking of the other Renoirs. I don’t want to add to the list of art work that’s been damaged around me.

  “You’re a muse. You can’t hurt a painting.” Her voice softens, and she takes my hand between both of hers. “Your hands are no ordinary hands. Your eyes are not like the eyes of others. You see things other people can’t see. You can touch things other people can’t touch.”

  She uncurls my fingers one by one, kissing the tip of each one softly. I want to do so much more with her, like we did last night, and then more than that too. But I let myself exist in this one achingly magnificent moment, with her velvet-soft lips against my skin.